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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28908798">regina andor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanctuaria/pseuds/Sanctuaria'>Sanctuaria</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Discovery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Episode: s01e12 Vaulting Ambition, Episode: s01e13 What's Past Is Prologue, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:15:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28908798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanctuaria/pseuds/Sanctuaria</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Or maybe she has also forgotten the thrill of a gaze levelly holding hers; such cowards are those in her servitude. It’s not as if she doesn’t understand why they are the way they are, mewling and crawling about at her feet, and not that she doesn’t</i> enjoy <i>it, but what emperor doesn’t relish a challenge every now and again?</i></p>
<p>An introspective of Emperor Philippa Georgiou (Augustus Iaponius Centaurius, Mother of the Fatherland, et cetera), and a contrast of Michaels.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michael Burnham &amp; Mirror Philippa Georgiou, Mirror Michael Burnham &amp; Mirror Philippa Georgiou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. part i</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My first fic in this fandom as I try to get a feel for the characters. I found <i>Discovery</i> about a month ago and fell head-over-heels for it, so hopefully the first of many ;)</p><p>Special thanks to independentalto for the beta! You're the best, Serena &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By all means, Philippa Georgiou is a rational person.</p><p>Not accounting for the fact that she has to be—she isn’t Her Most Imperial Majesty, Mother of the Fatherland, Overlord of Vulcan, Dominus of Qo’noS, Regina Andor, Philippa Georgiou Augustus Iaponius Centarius for <em>nothing</em>—but on her best days, she considers herself the type of person who can make the tough decisions on a whim.</p><p>After all, the empire is ruled by her whims, and it’s done more than all right for itself. A golden fist across the known universe that has sent the Vulcans and Romulans back to their caves and rendered Qo’noS a deadened rock, never to trouble anyone again. Any others sent scattering the moment a member of the imperial fleet drops out of warp. <em>Terra firma</em>, as they chant back at her, the spoils of war divided amongst the strong who will see her empire long into the future.</p><p>But sometimes, occasionally, even logic can be taken apart by logic. She’s no stranger to the Vulcan variety, but as soon as the first words drop from the-daughter-who-is-not-her-daughter’s lips, she knows its potential to take her apart.</p><p>She just doesn’t remember quite <em>how</em> dangerous they are until those same lips are wrapped around a mouthful of basal ganglia, held delicately between Philippa’s own two chopsticks.</p><p>Philippa takes the utensils back, the metal sliding smoothly against skin, then sets them back on her bowl with a heavy <em>clink</em>. She lifts her chalice of Andorian wine to her lips, watching as Michael swallows, then mirrors the movement. “You’re too generous,” Michael says, a foreign lilt of uncertainty to her voice. Indeed, her posture is all wrong, her back still ramrod straight but her thighs pressed together on the chair; she does not lean forward with the full force of her body as if to leap across the table at any moment or else recline across the seat, legs casually spread. She does not match Philippa’s display of casual dominance with a swagger, a domineer all her own. Philippa does not know this posture, does not trust it.</p><p>Does not trust <em>her</em>.</p><p>But as much as she likes a twist of the tongue, Michael has always appreciated directness, and direct Emperor Georgiou can be.</p><p>“Why would you leave me, then? I gave you everything. Best education, riches beyond imagination, even your own ship.” </p><p>“I earned my command on the <em>Shenzhou</em>,” Michael responds, and oh, how this is true. Earned it younger than any commander before her, a knife through the ribs of the previous captain right there on the bridge, painting the conn in red. How Michael had smiled at her then, bloody and feral, how proud Philippa had been as she extended her nod to she who would become Michael Burnham, recipient of the Valor, Master of Poisons, Hundred-Killer, and Butcher of the Binary Stars.</p><p>Maybe she has forgotten in her old age what it is like to spar with Michael, in the intervening months since she has been presumed dead, presumed traitor. That a battle of words is a battle of minds, a battle of clarity and sharpness of gaze, a battle of wills fierce as any firefight. How her former second-in-command is the only one who can distract her in this way, can send her mind careening back into memories that do not stay in the past, where they belong.</p><p>“You were hesitant to use it back at Harlak. Those rebels could have escaped,” Philippa reminds her, Michael’s stare boring into her own. “I had to dispatch them myself.”</p><p>Or maybe she has also forgotten the thrill of a gaze levelly holding hers; such cowards are those in her servitude. It’s not as if she doesn’t understand why they are the way they are, mewling and crawling about at her feet, and not that she doesn’t <em>enjoy</em> it, but what emperor doesn’t relish a challenge every now and again?</p><p>Michael has always challenged her, eyes blazing with pride and defiance in the sparring chambers on the occasions she managed to send Philippa sprawling into cold marble. Back before she came to view the emperor’s palace as a gilded cage, before she took her own ship to the stars, before her hungry gaze turned on the empire as a prize to be won, and Philippa as an emperor to be conquered.</p><p>“I had it under control.”</p><p>“You’ve grown soft,” Philippa observes dismissively, lifting her cup again, and readies herself for a sneer or a snarl, a listing of enemies killed or ships obliterated on this supposed hunt for Lorca, an accounting of the glory and destruction she has wrought across the universe during her absence.</p><p>Michael wastes no time in answering, but there is no savage pride on her face, only a coolness Philippa does not recognize. “And you’ve grown cruel.”</p><p>Cruel? Cruel from the woman who slaughtered thousands at the Binary Stars with a single order. Cruel from the woman who slew her previous lover as she slept, from she who tinkered with the agonizer design until there was absolutely no room for error that might let a condemned slip into the abyss even one microsecond before their allotted time.</p><p>Oh, Philippa has done all this and more, but never has she heard the word slip from Michael’s dark lips as anything less than veneration.</p><p>She <em>is</em> cruel. They <em>both</em> are.</p><p>“If you miss me, then say it,” Michael continues evenly, and this does away with any lingering doubts Philippa may have had about Michael’s intention to kill her. The only lingering doubt she has remaining is whether she actually thought this charade would <em>work</em>, or if Lorca’s mind-rot goes deeper than she knows. “Otherwise, let me be.”</p><p>“I thought you were dead,” Philippa suggests, hoping for a rise, hoping for some glimmer of the woman she once called daughter still within. What has Lorca done to her, to extinguish her fire so?</p><p>Except Michael continues to be calm. She has always been of a solemn disposition, excepting her fury in battle so befitting a Terran, but the domineer is absent, the words scathing enough to seem to press her opponent against a wall and force from them everything they know without Michael ever having to lift a finger. “Lorca’s men are everywhere. Even here aboard this ship. If you had known I was alive, they would have known, too. It would have been impossible to ambush him the way that I did.” Matter-of-fact. Too matter-of-fact. Where has Lorca been hiding all this time, Vulcan? That pitiful excuse for a planet and their obsession with logic had been subjugated long ago.</p><p>The idea of them plotting together turns her stomach the way blood and guts and impossible choices have never done. Or maybe it is just them <em>together</em>…</p><p>Philippa rises from her chair, watches the slight tensing of Michael’s muscles as she resists the urge to flinch. “Never could tell when you were lying to me,” she says, sauntering closer to Michael, placing herself behind her chair. Whatever games she is playing, this shell of Michael that has returned to her does not stop her, a fool’s mistake. “Fortunately, this time—” The shriek of metal being withdrawn from its sheath sounds more like death than Philippa has ever heard it as she levels the dagger at her throat. “—I know.” Michael is still, stricken—remorseful? Perhaps, if Philippa thought she was capable of such a thing, or perhaps it is Philippa getting soft in her later years. “You always tried to <em>outsmart</em> me, Michael, even as a child. Why? Was it the loss of your parents? My attention to the Empire?” She rotates until she can see Michael’s face, the delicate column of her throat bared against the silver of Philippa’s blade. It is cold, icily so, in her hand. “Or were you just <em>built</em> that way? Why were you never satisfied?” She leans closer, speaking every word with care. “I knew you had become Lorca's collaborator, and you were conspiring to kill me and take my throne.” <em>I knew he had taken you from me. I knew you were lost.</em> “Why did the two of you come back here?”</p><p>“Please, Philippa.” The audacity of a tear rolls down Michael’s cheek, and for a moment, she flashes back, she remembers—</p><p>
  <em>Carrying her little body off the scrap heap of that colony-turned-battlefield, quite young then herself, the crown borne on her brow still warm from the last emperor who had worn it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Michael, armored in gold that dwarfed her shoulders and sitting at this same table, asking, “But what shall I call you?” And Philippa, a little more naïve then, because what could be more appropriate for the one who would be her heir?</em>
</p><p>“It's <em>Philippa</em> now? Not so long ago, it was <em>Mother</em>,” she says, and the word is one of Michael’s many poisons on her tongue. A reminder, now, of what she has lost, and can never have. </p><p>The woman she had once thought to call a daughter but passed her off to nursemaids until that was all but an empty title, who she raised less like a child at her breast than like a soldier under her command.</p><p>She is not like the traitorous Lorca, preying on her youth, her admiration and her thirst for his approval. Always has she wanted to raise her up, not tear her down, or twist her around to her own schemes. She will <em>never</em> be like him, except in this one secret she holds close to her heart: that she loves Michael Burnham—and yes, it is love, though the day the true depth of that love slips past the lips of Philippa Georgiou Augustus Iaponius Centaurius is the day her regime falls—in a way that is dangerous.</p><p>Dangerous for her. Dangerous for the empire.</p><p>Dangerous for both of them.</p><p>Michael is not so young anymore, a woman and conqueror in her own right. Perhaps if Philippa had let Lorca feed her appetites a little more, or fed them herself—</p><p>Perhaps if she had not spurned him, from her bed and later her councils—</p><p>What is it they say? <em>Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer… </em>She is Emperor, she is Terran; she has no friends, only allies and subjects, all of whom are people to control. But she did have a daughter.</p><p>Regardless, that is useless conjecture for the here and now, more useless than the stray bits of Kelpien that float to the top of her soup bowl.</p><p>“Guards!” she calls, and the doors to her personal chambers on the I.S.S. <em>Charon</em> fly open smoothly to admit them. Five men shuffle into the room, and finally does she remove the knife from Michael’s throat, though it feels as though one is still lodged in hers. There is pain in her eyes now, delicious and sweet on anyone but Michael, whose look of anguish sears her skin and burns her very soul. “Take her to the throne room. Gather my council. She is to be executed by my own hand for treason.”</p><p>Honor and the mercy of a quick death. Those are the only things Emperor Philippa Georgiou, <em>Mother</em>, can offer her now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Any and all feedback appreciated &lt;3 </p><p>Will post part ii in about a week or less if I get impatient (I will get impatient lmao).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. part ii</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Philippa has some thoughts in comparison of the two Michaels.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By all means, Philippa Georgiou is a rational person. She believes in science, despite her empire shedding the shackles of other such <em>enlightened</em> concepts of ‘equality,’ ‘freedom,’ and ‘cooperation’ long ago.</p><p>She has the evidence, weighty in her hand and still warm from Michael’s touch. Battered and cracked, but her own name laser-etched into the back of it much like they inscribe the names of Terran commanders into their own badges. The woman this belonged to…</p><p>
  <em>Captain Philippa Georgiou, United Federation of Planets.</em>
</p><p>The computer chimes but Philippa needs no more confirmation, has seen the differences between the two with her own two eyes even before she knew what to make of it.</p><p>Standing before her is not Captain Michael Burnham, recipient of the Valor, Master of Poisons, Hundred-Killer, and Butcher of the Binary Stars, coup co-conspirator and traitor to the throne, but <em>Michael Burnham, Federation officer</em>.</p><p>So she makes the rational choice. Another Michael Burnham, while a rogue element, is a tool to be used,and Philippa is not one to kill those who could be useful to her. A moment later, all of her council but one, the weakest and easiest to cow, lie dead where they stood, the stench of burned flesh in the air and the barrel of the phaser rifle hot in her hands.</p><p>And then she watches, and waits. Empires are neither won nor ruled by rash decisions. By her whims, yes, but her whims, led by power or pleasure or sometimes both at the same time, are not rash. She watches as this Michael demands the return of her Lorca—it is always <em>Lorca</em>, no matter the universe—stoops to defend insidious Federation values, and bargains for the freedom of herself and her ship, hidden in plain sight somewhere within Terran space.</p><p>Her Michael would scoff at the idea of honor being used this way—honor to a Terran is an earned kill, a death at the hands of someone your superior, climbing up the rungs—and even less should this Michael trust it, but the deal is struck regardless.</p><p>“Call your ship,” Philippa says, stepping away from the computer bank.</p><p>“No,” Michael says, the word bold and brash as it falls from her lips. She meets her eyes again, as if they hadn’t just been going verbally toe-to-toe moments before, but there is something more serious in her gaze now, something almost…desperate. “First, hand it back,” Michael orders, palm out, and the stern expression on her face and cold steel in her eyes and spine would have made Philippa smile, in another time. Already she is learning more of this universe and this empire, where there is no <em>give</em>, only commands and orders and <em>take</em>. Her Michael would have slain such a stranger for it already, if intimidation did not work, and this Michael Burnham shares her obstinance, even if it is used in different ways. Or perhaps her Captain Georgiou really meant that much to her…</p><p>She wonders if this Michael coveted the position of her Captain Philippa Georgiou as her own Michael coveted her throne, or if that Georgiou had been able to maintain Michael’s respect above all else. Wonders what she had seen in her, if she did, as this Michael seems less attracted to fire and fury and splendor. Who was this other Philippa Georgiou, who could have captured her loyalty? She cannot think that in any universe Michael would have bent the knee to weakness, so at least in that they share.</p><p>She drops the badge of <em>Captain</em> Philippa Georgiou into Michael’s waiting palm, the skin of their fingers brushing for one lingering moment, and lifts one eyebrow as if to say, “<em>I told you I was a woman of honor.</em>”</p><p>Michael holds her gaze, then steps past her toward the comm, fingers flying across the controls with a dexterity Philippa well recognizes, despite her unfamiliarity with Terran systems. She returns to watching as the video feed connects across star systems, as Michael’s face loses some of its hard exterior to be replaced by an earnest solemnity as she speaks to her commander, the…Kelpien. Disgust rises like bile in her throat at the sight of her daughter groveling in front of a creature not worthy to lick the dust off her boots like that, asking him for <em>permission</em>, but she supposes there is something to be said for the manipulation of it all.</p><p>It seems in any universe, Michael does not fail to get what she desires.</p>
<hr/><p>They plot together, and it is almost the same. Michael’s unwavering resolve, her relentlessness, her inability to accept a no-win scenario. Michael does not know such a thing as rest, does not know such a thing as standing down, not that Philippa would ever advocate such a thing until she has Gabriel Lorca’s head on a golden platter. This is not even Michael’s fight, her home and her freedom and her <em>Federation</em> a transporter beam away.</p><p>Lorca covets them both, Michael at his side and in his bed and Philippa’s head and golden armor displayed on a spike to be broadcast across the quadrant. The safest thing to do would be to hide herself away. But that is not who Michael Burnham is, not the woman who throws herself at every problem, throws in her whole self where Philippa has always had a sense for self-preservation. A good thing, for an emperor who has survived and foiled six attempted coups in her time with the worst injury a split in one clawed fingernail.</p><p>This one has gotten…considerably farther.</p><p>They betray her together too, and that does not feel as familiar to Philippa as it must for Michael. Her Michael had not yet had the gall to do it to her emperor’s face, but she can see the pain of it in her stance as she pinches at the thin strip of bare skin accessible beneath the carapace of Philippa’s golden armor and forces her to fall on all fours in front of her, spikes of fire lancing up her wrists and arms. She can see it in the shadow behind her eyes, the tension of her brow, the stiffness of her jawline—this Michael is easier to read, or perhaps Philippa has just gotten to know the true shape of her better now, having met both versions.</p><p>And when the time comes, sparks shower around them to accompany the ringing, buzzing in her ears and they are back in the field of a thousand fireflies. Michael fights with ruthlessness she recognizes, but it is a ruthless efficiency. She takes no pleasure in the battle, and fights like she wants it to be over, rather than reveling in the clash of metal on metal, the blood on her lips, the crunch of ribs meeting the swing of her truncheon. She does not bare her teeth nor allow them to flash white amongst the smoke with savage delight at the display of brutality in front of her. This Michael, Philippa knows, does not lust for power or <em>control</em>, would take no joy in setting the world aflame and watching it burn through eyes dark and glowing like coals. This Michael fights for <em>ideals</em> and <em>sentiment</em>, and yet here she remains, fighting in a universe that knows neither of those things for a reason still elusive to Philippa.</p><p>Still, as she herself throws a man to the floor and discharges a phaser through the chin-turned-forehead of another, it is almost enough that she can forget for a single moment that it is not her Michael fighting at her side once again, not <em>her</em> Michael smashing and dodging and catching every blow only to retaliate with one of her own. The light from the fires flashes and dances off the gold of her armor as they weave around each other. While Philippa lets her rage smolder and fester to be meted out at her whims or in grand gestures of vengeance, Michael burns incandescent with the brilliance of a thousand suns, and this daughter-who-is-<em>truly</em>-not-her-daughter burns all in her own way—calculated, measured, but with full force of heart and will thrown behind it.</p><p>Philippa buries a knife in Lorca’s back, then deflects that same knife with one high sweep of her foot as he rips it from his flesh and hurls it back at her. She taught Michael that move, in another lifetime—does this Michael know it now? Did her Captain Philippa Georgiou teach her that, teach her the subtle beauty of a knife, or was it all phasers and… Philippa chances a glance at her again. …Vulcan <em>suus mahna</em>?</p><p>But Lorca is on her once more, and she curses herself for getting distracted from the man who took everything from her, barely managing to duck under a mighty swing of his sword. <em>Her</em> sword, yet another item on the long list of crimes he will pay for. She barrel rolls across the marble floor of the <em>Charon</em>’s throne room, landing on her back just in time to block his next slash with a spare piece of rubble from her ship, then takes his legs out from under him with it, sending him sprawling atop the dais. They rise at the same time, exchanging blows, but the reach of his sword is longer and deadlier than her fists. Philippa ducks—the rational choice, if she wishes to avoid decapitation—and opens herself up to his boot to the chest instead. The air is knocked out of her lungs even as her mouth fastens into a cruel snarl, her armor dissipating the rest of the force of the blow. His next swing is almost immediate, sloppy, even, in its unrefined twist at the elbow, but only her reflexes save her as she is forced to shield herself with the golden pillars of her own throne, vaulting out of its path and onto the seat as the slash of metal on metal creates streaks of sparks.</p><p>They exchange blows once, twice more, Philippa managing to make her sword clatter from his traitorous hands before he knocks her backwards. There is no room, no maneuverability trapped within the confines of her own throne to move away from his second blow, and pain explodes inside her skull as her head clangs into the metal pillars. Her vision flashes white, then red, then black, Lorca looming over her with a sadistic smile on his face, and the next moment gone. Words are being said beyond the roaring in her ears, but her eyes laser focus on the sword abandoned on the ground less than a foot away…</p><p>Vengeance tastes sweet on her tongue as her fingers stretch out toward it, clearing away the cobwebs in her head. His back is to her now, hands raised, Michael speaking.</p><p>“We would’ve helped you get home if you had asked. That’s who Starfleet is.” Philippa’s fingers close around the sword, lifting it with nary a sound as she rises to her feet and pauses. She <em>is</em> a woman of honor after all, and by right of combat, this is Michael’s kill. “That’s who <em>I</em> am.” The sound of a phaser powering down rings throughout the throne room, and the corner of Philippa’s lips curl at the idea of such mercy, such <em>principles</em>. Weakness, born of a weak universe, perhaps even the tutelage of a weak alter version of herself. The sneer turns to a smile, as she lifts her weapon. “That’s why I won’t kill you now.”</p><p>“But I will!” The emperor’s shout rings through the room, but it is for Lorca’s ears only to make sure he hears it even as she plunges the sword through him, just to the right of his spinal column. A backstab for a backstabber, and who can say the emperor’s justice is not just? Blood sprays, and she wishes she could see his face in this final moment, wishes she could see the sting of failure in his eyes, and him the glow of triumph and contempt in hers. The blade sings as she withdraws it from his back, painted scarlet all the way to the tip and dripping on the marble. He totters forward, toward this copy of the daughter he so stole. His gnarled fingers grasp and reach, trembling, but Michael steps out of the way,disgust painted across her face like the blood on Philippa’s sword.</p><p>The hatch in the throne room floor leading directly out into space and into the reactor core opens at Philippa’s direction, just as Lorca falls to his knees. Her foot plants in the center of his back just above the wound as she kicks him toward it, his body thumping along the littered marble like one of their chattel slain ere <em>vahar’ai</em> before rolling into the abyss.</p><p>For a moment, the air holds still, fate caught in the balance. If only she had known to do this years ago…</p><p>But Michael is watching her, an uncommon look of resignation on her face. She is clearly midway between forcibly holding her tongue and acceptance, where Philippa was looking for a Michael who knew how to do neither. This is a Michael who met few of her expectations, but rather eclipsed them instead, a backgammon piece no matter that the board was set for chess.</p><p>Philippa looks at her with new respect, letting it show on her face and in her tone. This might not be her Michael, but it is the Michael she will die with, and it is not wholly a disappointment. “It was a good plan. You fought well.” And then, allowing the tiniest bit of something softer to slip through her veneer, “For a moment…I thought I had her back with me.” Clanging sounds at the door, the scuff of steel-toed boots in the hall. “Lorca’s troops,” she says, dropping to grab a phaser rifle from one of the bodies on the floor. “I will buy you some time.”</p><p>Michael gives her that look again, earnest and hurting and not bothering to hide it. An hour ago Philippa would have said she never would have lasted a day amongst <em>terra firma</em>, but she has witnessed for herself her mettle. It is a pity she could never convince this Michael to slay her in battle—there would be honor in dying at the hands of this Michael Burnham as well.</p><p>Glory and honor, and a good death. Those are the only things left to her. “I am a defeated emperor. They’ve seen my neck; I have no future now.” She bares her throat, juts forward her jaw until it is sharp enough to cut glass. “But I will die on my feet as fitting my station. Go, Michael Burnham.” <em>Go, daughter-who-is-not-my-daughter</em>. “Find a way home. Live.” <em>Live the way she did not.</em></p><p>The other woman’s eyes burn into hers before Philippa breaks the contact, turning away from her and bringing up her weapon, facing the door. This is a Michael she will never possess, she reminds herself as the shooting starts, softened and poisoned by sentiment. Bright bolts fly past her, and she returns them in kind, the air sharp with the scent of ozone. She advances, still firing, for the reign of Her Imperial Majesty Emperor Philippa Georgiou shall be bloody until the last, as it should be.</p><p>Arms close around her from behind, warm with the press of sculpted metal against her back, and the familiar hum of a transporter beam fills her body, and Philippa understands. It is not <em>her</em> Michael who embraces her rather than allow her to fall into the sweet embrace of death.</p><p>But perhaps it is a Michael who will choose her, instead.</p><p>…Philippa can work with that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This fic was a ton of fun to write! Any and all feedback appreciated &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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